


Consecrated

by the_deep_magic



Series: A Very Critical Role Kinktober 2020 [7]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Kinktober 2020, Other, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Restraints, Shame, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26891179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_deep_magic/pseuds/the_deep_magic
Summary: Day Seven: tentaclesFjord doesn’t miss the dreams. Why would he? Although they usually ended with him waking to find he had new powers, nothing actually made him feel more powerless, more dependent on his patron. They were a constant reminder that he was nothing without Uk’otoa. Even when he was granted glimpses of things to come, they were merely breadcrumbs on a path laid out by a sinister creature pretending to be a god.
Relationships: Fjord (Critical Role)/Tentacles, Fjord/Melora the Wildmother (Critical Role), Fjord/Uk'otoa (Critical Role)
Series: A Very Critical Role Kinktober 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950748
Comments: 11
Kudos: 90





	Consecrated

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not super sure what this is or how to warn for it, but there’s definitely some quasi-divine dream dubcon at the beginning and a heavy mix of sex with (fictional) religion. Also spoilers through S2E76. 
> 
> It’s like, sure, I _could_ have written tentacle fic without Fjord, just like I _could_ have written breathplay fic without Vax… but why would I want to?

Fjord doesn’t miss the dreams. Why would he? Although they usually ended with him waking to find he had new powers, nothing actually made him feel more powerless, more dependent on his patron. They were a constant reminder that he was nothing without Uk’otoa. Even when he was granted glimpses of things to come, they were merely breadcrumbs on a path laid out by a sinister creature pretending to be a god.

Now that he’s a paladin of the Wildmother, things are more… well, not exactly more clear. He still doesn’t know quite what She wants from him, or what he can offer Her. He’s trying to be patient on that front, and while he’s waiting, to be grateful for the absence of fear. Oh, there’s still plenty for Fjord to be afraid of, but at least his subconscious isn’t haunted by an eldritch leviathan who makes him shove various powerful objects into his body and then sends bloodthirsty servants to retrieve them.

So, no, he doesn’t miss the dreams.

Except one.

It wasn’t a _good_ dream, exactly, though it was certainly preferable to the usual one-word commands issued as he tried not to drown and woke vomiting sea water. He’s still underwater in this dream, but he can breathe. There’s no all-seeing eye, no confusing imagery to behold. There’s not much to _see_ , full stop. It’s what he feels that makes – made – this dream different.

The feeling would start as a tickle, usually around his hands or feet. It could be excused in a number of ways – a bit of floating seaweed, a fish passing by. But then the touch would become firmer, more insistent. It wasn’t even pleasant, really, because somehow his sleeping brain could conjure the feeling of sliminess against his skin. Whatever was touching him was something long and thin and slippery, the appendages of some unknown creature, and it would start to make him nauseous. In the beginning, the first few times he dreamt it, he tried to struggle, tried to get away from the things, but it never worked. He learned to just let the tentacles take him.

And take him they would, slinking around him like sentient rope, coiling and wrapping first around his limbs, then around his torso. They felt like they covered every inch of his skin, writhing and squeezing, and even when he stopped fighting, he couldn’t stem the panic. Even though he knew what would be coming – even knew in a distant sort of way that it was just a dream – the inevitability of it was terrifying, and he would try to scream, but no sound ever came out.

And then something would… change.

The tentacles around him didn’t loosen, but instead of constricting, their embrace would start to feel comforting. They didn’t become any less slimy, but instead of repugnant, he’d start to find them smooth and even stimulating. He always tried to fight it, always tried to remind himself that this wasn’t what he wanted. It should have remained nauseating; instead, it began to turn unavoidably sensual.

Within this living mass of eely limbs, one would inevitably rub him just right, a slow, easy glide between his legs. Even as he tried to fight it, the sensation would go straight to his cock, which would begin to swell. Like blood in the water, the tentacles could sense his arousal and were drawn to it, wrapping around his cock and balls in a throbbing, clinging mass. They’d writhe and squeeze all down the length of him in a way no humanoid appendage could mimic, tightening and releasing in slow, rolling waves that would leave him helpless.

While these tendrils kept him distracted, one of its lone brethren would inevitably slide lower, perhaps seeking heat. In the waking world, Fjord has some experience being penetrated, but it never feels like this. Simply put, it’s never so easy as the wriggling tip of a feeler slipping inside him, past his defenses, to push its way in like it belongs there. And then to begin to _expand_.

They hold him there for Fjord doesn’t know how long. Time works differently in dreams, and it could be seconds or days that they keep him suspended, enveloping him and filling him. They never stay still, constantly weaving and pulsing and clenching around him and inside him, bringing him to the edge of orgasm and holding him there in a slimy embrace.

He would wake hard as a boat mast, needing only a few thrusts into his own hand to come harder than he ever has in his life.

It’s terrifying. It’s obscene. It’s incredible.

And now it’s gone.

Fjord hasn’t had a dream like that since throwing the falchion in the lava. If anything, it should disgust him more knowing that these dreams came directly from his patron and not his own mind. Uk’otoa had apparently been using him for more than just his own freedom, and now Fjord is free of all that. Not just free of the dreams, but free of the shame that would overtake him once the climax was over, once he was alone in bed with a handful of jizz and the taste of salt in the back of his throat.

So why isn’t he more grateful?

&&&

Caduceus is his brother-in-arms now, of a sort, and Fjord’s mentor as he learns what it means to be a paladin of Melora. The firbolg is also quite possibly the least judgmental being Fjord has ever encountered, and would probably have the perfect answer for Fjord’s conundrum. Yet Fjord doesn’t even know how to begin to bring it up.

Fjord watches Caduceus quietly powdering his mushrooms and thinks, _Hey, Cad, I’m not having wet dreams anymore – any kind of wet dreams – and I sort of miss them but also I’m disgusted with myself because I think I was being assaulted with psychic tentacles. What should I do?_

Instead, Fjord asks, “Making tea?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Caduceus says, not looking up. “Making as in ‘turning mushrooms into tea,’ not ‘brewing tea.’ Though I could do that if you want – it’s no trouble.”

“No, uh,” Fjord says, having no idea where he’s going with any of this. “Just wanted to see what you were up to.”

Then Caduceus does look up. “Want to talk? You have that look on your face.”

Fjord tries to memorize what his face is doing so he can remember not to do it again, at least in front of Cad. “I, um. I’m not sure I do, but I think I should.”

“Take a seat,” Caduceus says, using one large, furry foot to push a kitchen stool in Fjord’s direction.

Fjord does, and then falls silent. Caduceus finishes grinding the last of the mushrooms and then puts them aside, folding his hands on the table and looking at Fjord. Fjord just sits there, willing Caduceus to say something, all the while knowing he’s going to break first. It takes less than ten seconds, but it feels like an hour.

“I feel we like haven’t talked much about morality,” Fjord spits out at last.

“No?” Cad asks, looking thoughtful. “I thought we usually had quite a bit of lively discussion about the right thing to do at any one time. That’s not to say we always figure it out, but we try.”

“Maybe morality isn’t quite the right word. I think I mean more like… rules.”

“Rules?”

“Ethical guidelines. Is there, say, a text? Some kind of list? A scroll I should read?”

Caduceus’s lips turn up at the corner. “I assume you’re talking about the Wildmother.”

“Yes.”

Slowly, the smile spreads across his face. “Are you going to be disappointed if I say no?”

 _A little_ , Fjord thinks. “I just… I’m feeling something. Something I don’t want to feel. I want something I shouldn’t.”

“Are you comfortable talking specifics here?”

“Uh… no.”

Caduceus’s face grows a little more serious. “What makes you think you shouldn’t want it?”

“It’s something linked to—” Fjord drops his voice for reasons he couldn’t possibly name. “To Uk’otoa. I think it was part of my whole deal with him. It left when I broke our pact, but I want it back. And I don’t _want_ to want it back. Does that make sense?”

“Was it something bad? Something that could be used to hurt other people?”

“I don’t… I don’t think so? It didn’t really have anything to do with other people. It was kind of… personal. To me. But I don’t like what it says about me that I want it back.”

Caduceus nods slowly. “Why do you think you shouldn’t want it?”

“It was… unnatural. I think.”

“You think?”

“I mean, it wasn’t unnatural in the sense of being necromantic, or against the natural order of the world, or anything like that. But it felt… wrong.”

“But also there was something about it that was appealing to you.”

Fjord feels his face heat and hopes he isn’t starting to blush. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Cad says, looking down at his hands, and Fjord appreciates that he seems to be giving this all some thought, despite Fjord’s inability to be specific about anything. “I could cast Commune, but I don’t know what to ask, and it seems like you don’t quite know either. Am I right about that?”

“You’re… yes.”

“Have you tried meditating on it?”

Fjord spends a moment blinking in shock. “It’s… not something I really want to meditate on.”

Caduceus leans forward, and Fjord has a sinking feeling he knows what Cad is going to say. “Why don’t you try? You don’t have to force anything. In fact, you can’t, when it comes to meditation. Just… show the Wildmother what’s bothering you, and be open to an answer.”

“But…”

“A lot of this is sounding like shame,” Cad says with a gentle smile. “And She doesn’t have much use for shame. You might be surprised with the answer you get.”

&&&

Fjord puts it off, telling himself he should wait until they’re near the sea again. That’s where he feels closest to his goddess, so he convinces himself he needs to be near to talk to Her.

Then Caleb learns a spell that can send them back to Nicodranas in the blink of an eye.

Everyone’s scattered for the evening: Veth to her family, bringing Caleb along. Caduceus is shopping for spices. Jester, Beau, and Yasha are only downstairs, but Marion’s performance isn’t set to start for another hour and a half, so they’ll be away a while.

The upstairs room Fjord and Caduceus are sharing at the Lavish Chateau is fairly small, considering their respective sizes, but it’s very nicely appointed, and the view is unparalleled. Fjord opens the window to smell the breeze coming off of the ocean. The sun is setting, and the wind is just starting to pick up. Music filters up from the opening act downstairs.

Fjord sits on his bed, facing the window and holding the symbol of the Wildmother that Caduceus gave him. He closes his eyes, breathes in, and reaches out.

He’s shocked to feel a warm gust of air on his face right away and he opens his eyes, expecting some vision or other to be standing in the room. But there’s nothing, just the open window and the spread of the town and the waning sunlight. He closes his eyes again, waiting. This time, his attention is drawn to the sound of seagulls. Nothing unusual about that, considering where he is, but at the moment, they sound a bit like gentle laughter.

Fjord takes another slow, deep breath, and as he lets it out, he forces himself to conjure up the image of the dream. Just the beginning of it, just the moment where the tentacles really begin to assert themselves, wrapping around his wrists and ankles in a way he can’t ignore. He feels a sudden flash of revulsion – not just at the image, but at the context in which he’s conjuring it.

This is a stupid idea, he suddenly realizes. How grotesque, to shove this thing in the Wildmother’s face and ask for… what? Her to alter his memory so he never has to think about it again? Fat fucking chance. His problems are his problems, and besides, it’s just an uncomfortable sex dream; he needs to put this out of his mind and do his best to serve Her however he can.

Except he can’t put it out of his mind. Even though Fjord set the thought in motion, summoned the memory of the dream no differently than remembering what he had for breakfast, the narrative of it begins to spool out unbidden. It shouldn’t even be a matter of waking up, just literally thinking about something else… but he can’t. He can’t even think about what else to think as the tentacles snake up his limbs and the revulsion begins to overtake him.

But it’s different now. He suddenly realizes that, though he’s underwater, he can see what’s happening to him. More than that, he’s being watched. At first, his heart begins to slam with fear, expecting Uk’otoa’s giant yellow eye to open in front of him. But it’s worse than that – so much worse. In the water’s currents, he begins to see what he first thinks to be kelp, long waving strands of it. There are no leaves on it, though, and the way it’s drifting, as though it’s moving purposefully through the water, circling around him.

It isn’t kelp at all. It’s hair. He follows the swirl of it to its source, confirming an even worse fear. It’s Her.

Fjord begins to panic in earnest. What is She doing here, in this repulsive dream? Fjord’s under no illusion that he’s a perfect man, but nor does he want to wave his shame in front of his new patron. He may as well be that small, chubby orphan boy again, desperately filing down his tusks in the mirror. As the tentacles close around his torso, beginning their horrible, writhing dance, he struggles. It’s useless, he knows, but he can’t submit to this now. She shouldn’t be here; She can’t see this. She will learn how filthy he is and reject him, and he’ll be left alone and empty once again.

He’s so deep in his panic that it takes him another few seconds to realize that the tentacles have stopped. They haven’t retreated and they’re still gripping him as tightly as ever, but they’re completely still. For a few moments, he keeps thrashing, keeps trying to rip them away from his body, but it’s no more possible now than it ever has been.

Finally, weakened from the struggle, he stops.

His eyes are shut tight, as though that would do anything to will Her away, but he feels a warm current caress his face, just like the breeze had through an open window in a room far, far away from here. He tries his best to ignore it, but it becomes more insistent, more like a gentle slap, if such a thing were possible in water. Finally, he opens his eyes.

She’s right there in front of him, made up of swirling currents and darting schools of fish and nothing at all, but he knows it’s her. Fjord feels like he’s been impaled right through the chest, pinned against his own worst shame, and he tries to open his mouth, tries to say _please_ _make it stop_ or _take it away_ , but he can’t. There’s a tentacle around his mouth, holding fast.

She lifts Her hand, and Fjord tries to flinch away, but he’s not even capable of that much. He expects Her to seize him tight, maybe crush him into silt to drift down and away to the ocean floor miles beneath, but… Her hand passes through him. Right through him and through the mass of slithery tentacles.

Except they’re not anymore: not slithery, not tentacles. They’re still there, but they’re something else now, something closer to vines. And they’re soft, no longer slimy but soft like peach fuzz as they glide against his skin. They’re moving again, wrapping around and around him, but not to crush him. Just to… hold him.

Just as always, one wends its way down through the others, and his body begins to light up with arousal. He expects to feel humiliation sharper than anything he’s felt before, with this all happening in Her presence, but it just… doesn’t happen. Where there should be guilt and indignity, there’s only desire. When one of the vines begins to wrap around his cock, he swears he can see Her smile.

This time, when the tips of the vines begin to press at him, he spreads for them eagerly. There’s the familiar fullness sliding into him from below, but also the touch of a growing tendril to his lips. He opens for it, letting it swell hot and sweet over his tongue until it unfurls down his throat. It’s utterly impossible to breathe as the vine begins to flower inside him, filling his lungs, but he finds he no longer needs to. There’s no need for air where She fills him, where She sprouts and begins to grow.

There’s a thrumming in the vines, same as before, rippling around his cock and inside his ass. His mind starts to drift, his thoughts dulling to background noise as the pleasure takes over, pushing through his body like a wave through the ocean. It’s not just in his cock – it’s everywhere, in every sinew and muscle fiber, all pulsing with the same rhythm, and it’s so easy to surrender to it. To float on it. To let it carry him away.

The part of him that can still think expects to be held on the edge like before, teased but never satisfied, but there’s no edge here. There’s just Her pulse in him and around him growing stronger and stronger, no upper limit to it, just a slowly growing bliss that threatens to consume him the longer he stays. He aches with it, feeling himself start to come apart, little by little. There may be no limit it to it, but there’s a limit to him, to how much he can take and still remain himself.

 _Okay_ , he says without speaking. _That’s enough. Thank you_.

She grins.

And he crashes back into his body, curling into himself as his cock spills into his smallclothes, completely untouched. It’s a pale imitation of what he’d had just moments ago, but it’s still better than anything he can remember feeling as a physical being, so he moans long and loud into his hands, one of which still clutches Her symbol. His cock gives a final twitch and he collapses to the bed, breathing hard as the last few rays of the sun disappear beyond the horizon. Another lone seagull gives off a loud cry.

Definitely laughter.


End file.
